


how to never stop being sad

by longerthanmywang



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 08:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13714158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longerthanmywang/pseuds/longerthanmywang
Summary: richie's heart gets ripped out of his chest while it's still beating.





	how to never stop being sad

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO this was going to be kaspbrough but i wanted to get one last sad reddie fic out of my system. i also really really wanted to write about them breaking up but happy stories are coming (i think) 
> 
> this is inspired by the poem "How To Never Stop Being Sad" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qZ_WVsP9RkE) by dandelionhands and I definitely recommend listening to it.
> 
> Warnings for: general sadness, breakup (?), alcohol mention, vomit mention and smoking) anyways, if you enjoy it/hate it/it makes you sad let me know by sending me an ask (http://benhanscoms.tumblr.com/ask) or giving kudos or commenting!

When Richie thinks of where they went wrong, he wonders if there was a point, a tangible date when Eddie decided they were done for, and it was all downhill from there. When he thinks of where they went wrong, his brain short-circuits and forgets Eddie’s name, and resorts to an endless loop of  _you fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked u_

He replays every moment they shared, and analyzing every syllable of every lyric on every song Eddie put on those mixtapes-  _this was a sign wasn’t it? Things were bad for a while, weren’t they? Were we screwed from the beginning? Was this a mistake? No, it was you who cared too much, not him._

He reads the card, the little lined one that comes with the cassette case, and he knows all the songs Eddie’s written in green marker, forwards and backwards,  _The Smiths, The Cure..._ all songs about being in love, none about sadness or confusion or  _I just don’t think we should do this anymore._ No warning, no method of anticipation. 

Stan calls, and Bill doesn’t, and Mike’s fallen off the face of the earth and Ben avoids eye contact and Beverly is a million miles away and two towns over and nothing is the same. 

And Stan doesn’t mean it, but when he tries to comfort Richie, it’s more of an  _I told you so_ , than anything. He’s right, though. He’s right, he’s right, he’s right, and Richie hates it. 

Eddie doesn’t answer his phone.

Richie drives his heel into a cassette tape in a parking lot. 

He starts smoking again, and he lets the smell stick to the seats of his car. He smokes more. 1 a day turns to 3, then 4, then 5. All his money goes to cigarettes, because  _who cares, right?_ All he can hear is Eddie’s voice in his ears, talking about cancer and emphysema and bronchitis as he raises his lighter. He skips class more to smoke, because  _who the fuck cares_. He doesn’t.

Bill sees him in the hallway and immediately looks away. Stan comes around, and so does Ben, but Mike never does. No one sees much of Mike anymore. 

_My life is shit because I deserve it, right?_

He makes it easier on himself and avoids him at all costs, skips the classes he has with Eddie and spends lunch on the patio with a bunch of burnouts or hiding in the bathroom. It’s fucking pathetic, and he knows it.

Bill becomes more of a memory to Richie, and he thinks that if he had parents who noticed what he did, they’d ask why Bill doesn’t come around much. Or why Eddie stopped coming over, for that matter. He wonders if Eddie remembers to lock his window now, or if he knows that his hoodie is still in his car. He knows he has to give it back, and he will, but sometimes, sometimes, when it’s dark and no one can see him, Richie presses that sweatshirt against his face and he shuts his eyes as he  _breathes_  in the scent and it’s almost like he’s still here-

It’s fucking pathetic, and he knows it. 

On a  _not-so-bad_  day, a Sunday, when Richie gets a random urge to come back to himself, he makes himself get up and he makes himself go to the store, because he needs looseleaf paper and he  _wants_  to do his homework. And, he needs cigarettes. 

He’s sliding thin, floppy packages of cellophane-wrapped looseleaf into his arm when Bill Denbrough turns the corner, a quite literal sight for sore eyes. 

And Richie stands up, and he straightens his glasses and he smiles because  _god damnit, this is a good day, and he’s feeling okay,_ but Bill doesn’t return the smile. He does, however, offer an awkward grimace à la,  _hey, kid, i’ve known you since kindergarten and have been to literal hell and back with you, but you dated my best friend and he ripped your heart out of your chest so I’ve decided that NOW it’s best for it to be painstakingly awkward between us, that cool?_  It’s a classic look, if you’ve never seen it. 

“What’s up, Billy?” Richie asks slowly, and wills his foot not to tap, or his fingers to fidget. 

Bill smiles thinly, but Richie takes it. He misses hearing Bill laugh, he misses  _Bill_ , and he sure as fuck misses Eddie. 

“I-I-I’m just doing some eh-errands for my mom,” He replies, and Richie’s mind scrambles. He wants to find something funny to say, because he wants Bill to laugh and he wants him to know that he’s okay. 

_Because he is okay, he’s fucking great. Stellar, fucking great. Happy. Happy on this day, later he’ll be mad and sad on the next day but who cares because he’s okay now, right?_

He opens his mouth to speak when a voice carries over from a few feet away, calling for Bill, asking him something but Richie’s brain fucking short circuits again, and he doesn’t hear, all he knows is that Bill’s face goes white and he feels like an idiot. 

He should move, but he doesn’t, and Eddie comes around the corner. He’s speaking to Bill, but Richie can’t hear a thing, all there is is the constant buzzing in his ears from the sirens going off in his brain screaming, yelling,  _run, run Richie, run, run, run Richie! Evil! Evil! Run! Hide!_ He swallows, and it’s dry and painful when Eddie notices him in the aisle.

“Hey, Richie,” Eddie says, folding his lips into what appears as both a look of pity and a sad smile, the kind where your eyes are sad but your mouth is happy. Richie gets nervous. He stammers and stumbles just to think of what to reply, so he mirrors Eddie as he takes him all in, the first time he’d seen him in two weeks. He looks good, he looks normal and he looks  _happy_ , or maybe that’s just Richie imagining it, but there are no dark circles under his eyes, no cigarettes or empty beer bottles in his hands, no ghoulish look in his eyes. 

__Does he know that you have his sweatshirt? Probably, you fucking creep._ Does he look happier than he did with you? Of course he looks happier, that’s the point of dumping someone. Does Bill know everything? Of course he does, he already knows everything and he fucking hates you, but who doesn’t?_

His mind proceeds on this downward fucking spiral, and Bill tells him they’re going to go ahead and go. 

Richie brings himself out of it. “Yeah, totally, I’ll see you guys- around,”

He winces as he says it. 

Bill and Eddie hang out, but they hang out all the time, and Stan says Ben goes along with them sometimes.  _But Ben chums with everyone_ , Stan says. 

Stan becomes the mediator between Richie and his friends. 

It’s stupid and it’s like middle school, and he knows it, but it hurts, it physically hurts when Richie passes the library and sees Stan and Eddie at a table together, not talking, hardly interacting, just working alongside each other. His heart lurches.

Richie’s driving Stan home from school when he opens the glove compartment, and a gray  _Derry High School TRACK AND FIELD_ hoodie tumbles onto his feet. So  _clearly_  Eddie’s. So  _clearly_  in the possession of a lunatic. Stan quickly shoves it back into the compartment and shuts it, and Richie nearly cries from embarrassment. They never talk about it.  

He hangs out with Stan less after that. It’s hard, though, because Richie can’t  _fucking handle_  being alone and he needs someone to talk to and someone to laugh so everything isn’t so fucking sad all the time but he doesn’t want Stan to think he’s clingy and he wouldn’t dare to call Bill. 

But one night, he gets really high and he calls up Ben Hanscom, because he fucking loves Ben and he never sees him anymore  _and that makes me sad, Haystack,_ he says into the phone. Usually, when he’s stoned he gets lazy and slow, but now he thinks only of how much he has to say and never did say and everything he never told anyone and it all spills out onto the carpet like he flipped over his sister’s purse. 

“I know, I miss you too, but, is everything okay?” Ben sounds tired.

Richie ignores his question, partially because he didn’t even hear the second half of it. “Did I ever tell you about me and Eddie’s first date?”

Ben replies in a small voice. “No, no you didn’t,”

“We went to a movie, I don’t know which one, do you remember which one it was?” He pauses, and Ben says,  _um, no,_  “Then  _he_  kissed me in the parking lot, Ben,  _he_  kissed  _me_! Eddie kissed me, and he had to, he had to like,  _pull_  my face towards his but he kissed me right there, right where anyone could see, but, why did he kiss me if he knew he was going to dump me? What the fuck is that, Ben?”

Ben wanted to ask, wasn’t that a year ago? But instead he just sighs and lets Richie ramble on. 

“I don’t know, it’s just kind of fucked up, you know, when someone knows everything about you one day and then you can’t even, you can’t call them,” 

Ben nodded, not realizing that Richie couldn’t even see him.

“Like, it’s like, like, we had sex in my car a month ago and now we don’t even speak,” When he says this, Richie snorts, then wheezes because his misfortune is hilarious. 

“Richie,” Ben’s voice drags him back to Earth. “Richie, are you okay? Tell me if you’re not,”

“I’m peachy, Benjamin, but, I’m a little  _sad_ ,” He says in a low, winy voice, and laughs again. “I bet you know what that’s like,”

“Are you drunk?” Ben’s gruff and sleepy voice sounds more alert, more concerned. 

Richie clicks off the call, and Ben questions whether or not he should go over and check on him. But, he doesn’t have a car, and he can’t use Bill’s because Eddie’s at Bill’s house and that’s too awkward. Ben wishes things weren’t so awkward. He wonders if things would have been this awkward if Bill and Beverly had dated, then broken up, before she moved to Portland. Or would that be different?

The longer he waits, the more worried he gets, because he knows Richie and Richie’s definitely on something, and he’s already impulsive and he knows how sad he must be and, fuck it, Ben calls Bill. 

Bill picks up after the second ring. It’s 12:48 pm. Bill sounds chipper when he says hi to Ben, and Ben starts off. 

“Hey- is Eddie over?” 

“Yeah, we were doing the eh-eh-English project, i-it’s taking forever. Do you want to come over?” 

Ben blinks. “No, I- I’m really worried about Richie,”

There’s a pause. Bill speaks again, more softly this time. “Yeah, me too,” 

“Bill, I think he’s drunk, or he might be high, I don’t know, but he called me and he’s freaking me out,”

“Do you want me to go s-see him?” 

_Maybe that’s not such a good idea_ , Ben thinks. “No, no, it’ll be fine, I just wanted to know if you knew anything,” 

Bill starts to get nervous, too. “A-are you sure? I feel like I sh-should,”

“No, no, I’ll call him again, thanks, though. Tell Eddie I say hi,” 

Bill says goodbye and hangs up, and Eddie looks up at him questionably from the kitchen table. “That was Ben,” Bill explains, and Eddie nods, turning the page of his textbook. 

Ben calls, and Richie doesn’t pick up. He starts to worry that maybe he should have told Bill to go. He thinks of everything Richie told him, how fucked up it is that you can know a person better than anyone, and love a person more than anything, and the next instant, you aren’t talking, you’re avoiding each other in the halls. It’s fucked up. 

Richie doesn’t remember calling Ben. 

The weed he bought was cheap, and it was bad weed, too, so he spent the rest of his night and the next day hunched over the toilet. He stays home from school, which worries Ben and Bill more. He doesn’t leave his bed, and he feels like shit and sometimes he wishes he never would’ve smoked it but he laughs when he thinks to himself,  _at least the high was good. Pretty good._

Richie feels like falling apart. Sometimes he feels like he already is. 

On his second day home from school, his mother walks into his room and sits by his bedside. “Richie? What’s wrong?”

“I’m dandy, Margaret,” Richie replies coldly, dragging his comforter over his shoulders. 

“Your friend, Ben left a message on the voicemail. Asking if you were okay?”

Richie shut his eyes.  _Of course Ben called his fucking landline_. “Obviously I’m fine, I’m just sick,”

Maggie places a hand on his back, comfortingly, and it feels foreign, and stiff, but nice somehow. She rubs his back for a few seconds, awkwardly pats his arm and then leaves, closing the door behind her. Sometimes she was alright, his mother. She just didn’t get him. At all. But he didn’t really get himself either, so he doesn’t blame his parents much anymore. 

Richie shows up back at school and when he wakes up he visualizes a skeleton in his mirror. He brushes his teeth, for the first time since he puked, and runs his fingers through his hair and splashes some water on his face. He catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, and he looks better, somewhat, he’s still pale and his eyes look like two black bottle-caps in his face but he’s coming up, he’s coming up from his lowest point so he supposes it’s only up from here. 

He walks downstairs, and it feels good to walk after being in bed for so long, and his legs thank him. On the kitchen counter sits a paper brown bag, with one single banana inside. 

“Sorry,” His mother says, trying to balance eight things in her arms while holding the phone between her shoulder and her ear. “I was going to make you lunch but I ran out of time,” 

Richie slides the banana across the counter and salutes sarcastically as he walks out the door. At least she was trying. 

He speeds to school, which he didn’t have to do, because he was actually early but it’s spring and the wind coursing through his windows feels fucking amazing when you book it, turning an 8 minute drive into a 4 minute one. But it feels amazing. It feels liberating to drive. 

Richie dumps his books into his locker, and feels out of place in the empty hallway. Class doesn’t start for another half hour, and anyone who was already at school was at a club meeting or something. He sits in the library and tries to catch up on Chemistry, because god knows he’s already so far behind.

The library’s warm and smells like coffee, there’s only two other students and a librarian with him. He sticks the back of his pencil between his teeth, pressing the tip of his tongue to the eraser for inspiration. He tries not to let his mind drift elsewhere, he tries not to think of his friends and rather focuses on equilibriums and formulas. Someone pulls out the seat next to him and his heart jumps into his throat. 

“Can I sit?”

It’s a sweet voice, small and kind, but at the same time it sends Richie’s mind in 8 thousand directions, it scares him and his first instinct is to run, and run far. He presses his lips into a thin line and nods, and Eddie Kaspbrak sits down next to him, clutching a black binder to his chest. 

“I just,” Eddie lowers his voice. “I heard. About what happened, we were, we were all... we were worried, Richie,”

“What happened?” The librarian shoots Richie a look, and he softens his voice. “Who’s ‘we’?”

Eddie shifts uncomfortably. “Ben, Bill, Stan, me... Mike, everyone,”

“Mike?” Richie starts to get more angry than anxious, and he taps his pencil against his thigh. “I’m a-” He focuses on whispering, “I’m a fucking mess, you happy? I’m so, so glad Stan decided to fill all of you in on that, really,”

His voice increases in volume and Eddie winces. 

Richie turns back to his schoolwork. “Congrat-u-fucking-lations, Eds,” 

Eddie raises his arm, as if to touch Richie’s shoulder, then retracts it. “No, it’s not that, it’s, I mean, this hasn’t been- Ben said you called him drunk, and then you missed school and all, and... we were worried,”

“Well, Ben’s a fucking dumbass,” Richie says in a harsh whisper. “Sorry that I’m not letting you get off on my misery,” 

It hurts when he says it, because Eddie’s trying to help, and Richie knows it, but it hurts too much to look at him, and he thinks of when they kissed in the parking lot and when he said I love you, and when they told all their friends and everyone was so happy and now it’s all awkward and quiet and dark and coated in a thick jelly.  _At least the high was good_ , Richie thinks. 

“Richie,” It sounds the same. It’s the same soft plead, the one he’s heard hundreds of times, but it sounds distant, almost otherworldly. Eddie blinks rapidly, and Richie knows he’s about to cry but he refuses to look. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, and Richie smiles wryly. 

“I’m sorry, too,” 

_And watching Eddie walk out the door, watching his hand twitch and his body duck into the hallway, Richie’s heart lurches, and the love spills out of his chest and chokes him._


End file.
